


Through Sorrow To Find Joy

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Healing, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-22
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-12 16:04:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4485957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingolfin and his followers arrive in Middle-earth, exhausted and in grief, and are immediately attacked by Orcs. Who will come to their aid?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through Sorrow To Find Joy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [serenityabrin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/serenityabrin/gifts).



> _But Fëanor laughed, and spoke not to the herald, but to the Noldor, saying: 'So! Then will this valiant people send forth the heir of their King alone into banishment with his sons only, and return to their bondage? But if any will come with me, I say to them: Is sorrow foreboded to you? But in Aman we have seen it. In Aman we have come through bliss to woe. The other now we will try: through sorrow to find joy; or freedom, at the least.'_  
>  \- The Silmarillion, Of the Flight of the Noldor

They were taken at unawares in the darkness, just as the Moon was setting. It was the end of a long march, and they were beginning to make camp in the darkness by the shores of the Sea, thousands of Elves strung out in a long marching formation over the landscape, all of them weak and weary from their journey across the Helcaraxë, many of them injured or suffering from grief. They had as yet encountered no threat in the new lands they had only arrived in three marches ago, and Fingolfin was beginning to think their entrance had gone unnoticed and they would not meet any hinderance until they knocked at the gates of Morgoth's stronghold. 

The attack was sudden and swift, scattering their folk as Orcs descended upon them. Argon was leading the first group and was the first to draw sword against their foes. Feeling as if his own body was faint and far away, Fingolfin drew his own sword, and rushed into the fray. Howling arose around him and the press of filthy bodies, cutting blades, driving headlong for him. 

Fighting in a real battle was as unlike the swordplay he'd learned from Fingon as they crossed the Ice as it was possible to be. But the familiar movements of arm and foot, hand sweeping down to cut through the flesh, the instinctive reactions, and the knowledge that this was real, he was fighting for his life, and did not have to hold back but could use his full force, could cut and thrust and parry with all his might, surged together within him, and he fought viciously, clearing a path toward Argon, who was near overwhelmed. 

Someone was sounding trumpets, the same call they had used on the Ice when there was grave danger. He was caught up in another fierce onslaught of Orcs, but took a moment to be grateful that someone - probably Turgon - had given the order for the alarm to be raised. 

He could catch no glimpse of Argon now, only figures dim and far down the beach. Turning, he realised he was alone, but for another horde of Orcs rushing toward him, backing him up against the cliffs that lined the edge of the beach. He looked up. The cliff was somewhat taller than himself, but there were handholds - and yet, he would have to either sheathe or lose his sword, and Orcs could climb as well as he could. As well, he did not know what was at the top of the cliff. 

Fingolfin raised his sword against the cliff face, determined to sell his life dearly, hoping Fingon or Aredhel would be able to find and rescue him. The Orcs paused in their run toward him at the determination in his face, and the light in his eyes. "What are you waiting for, cowards?" he said, cold and fierce. "Are you craven even as your master is?"

The Orcs gave a yell of fury and resumed running toward him. All his attention focused on them, he was taken by surprise when arrows whistled past his ear and several of the Orcs fell. A bow clattered to the ground beside him and in the next instant, someone landed next to him, sword upraised. 

"I see you decided to follow me after all," a very familiar voice said, faintly amused, and as Fingolfin turned to look at Fëanor, surprise and anger mingling in his face, the Orcs were upon them. 

Fëanor's presence was like a dash of cold water to his senses; Fingolfin felt himself coming awake in a way he had not been for years, full of rage and passion. One look only was he able to cast at his brother, and in that look was everything he had suffered, the shock of betrayal, the horror of the crossing, and the relief, sheer and sweet, that swept over him to see Fëanor alive. And then they were both in the fray, settling in to fight back to back without even thinking about it, cutting down everything that stood between them, everything that threatened them. 

The fight lasted seconds, despite the fact that there must have been thirty Orcs. Fingolfin could feel his brother's warm presence at his side, at his back, protecting him, guarding him. When everything lay dead about them, Fëanor turned to him, and seized him in a crushing embrace. Breathless, Fingolfin could feel his sword falling from nerveless fingers, and brought his hands up to clutch Fëanor back, to hold him hard against him. They swayed together, and Fingolfin could feel burning tears welling up in his eyes. 

"How dare you?" he said, and in that question was everything - how dare you abandon me, how dare you save me, how dare you burn the ships, how dare you think that with a quip and a hug everything could be put right between us? Fëanor drew back and looked into his eyes, seeing all the questions that burned in them, all the anger, and all the love that still lived there too. His own eyes softened, and their embrace became more gentle, more of comfort than relief. 

"I'm sorry," Fëanor said, bowing his head. "I was wrong to burn the ships. I was wrong about you." 

The trumpets sounded once again, this time giving the all-clear signal. Someone was running up the beach toward them, frantic, and they moved apart. In a moment more, Fingon's voice rang out as he approached. "Father, come with me now! Arakáno is gravely wounded." He seemed to catch sight of Fëanor then, and his eyes darkened. "You..." he said, and the word was almost a growl. 

Fingolfin, heart pounding at the news, shook his head to clear it. "Not now, Findekáno. Take me to him." 

Fëanor followed them down the beach to where Argon lay, bright red blood flowing from a wound in his breast. It was a wound too grave to survive, Fingolfin realised with a shock, and knelt down beside him, taking his head in his arms. "Father," Argon said weakly, and smiled a little. 

"My beloved son," Fingolfin whispered, feeling his eyes start to burn with tears. Next to him, Fingon, crouched down, took one of his hands and held it, as on his other side, Aredhel smoothed back his hair, whispering comforting words. Turgon was nearby too, but was turned away, jaw set, arms around Idril, who was holding Argon's other hand. Fëanor stood back, away from the family, eyes flickering between Fingolfin's face and the Sea, a hand raised to cover his mouth. 

Argon took several long deep breaths, chest rattling at every intake of air, and finally could not breathe deeply any more and gasped as the blood began to choke him. Fingolfin held him close, tears running down his face, murmuring softly about his bravery and how proud he was. The moments that passed then felt like an eternity, until finally Argon's body went limp in his arms, and Fingolfin laid him down in the sand, staring down at his face, unable to move or think for a moment. 

Fingon sprang up and with a sharp cry lunged at Fëanor, who, shocked, took several steps backward, fending him off with his hands. "This is your fault!" Fingon cried out. "You abandoned us!" 

"Not only my fault," Fëanor said. "Do you think I don't grieve? Do you think I haven't known loss, Findekáno?" He shook his head and began to turn away. "Nelyo," he breathed. 

Fingon gasped. "What about Maitimo? Where is he?" 

Fëanor turned back again. "He was captured, and all his company slain, a year ago. We do not know if he yet lives." He gave Fingon a sad smile. "So you see, you are not the first to lose a brother, and your father not the first to lose a son." 

Fingon's shoulders slumped and all the fight went out of him. "My brother and my best friend, gone," he said, sinking back to the ground next to Argon's body. "This new land seems to be made all of sorrow." 

\----

They were unmolested during the rest of the journey to Fëanor's encampment on the shores of Lake Mithrim, and the company that Fëanor had brought with him was quick to ensure the safe travel of the many wounded and injured in Fingolfin's train. The dead, including Argon, were buried at the foot of one of the mountains of the Ered Lómin, where there were many rocks to build cairns over their bodies. 

Even before the travellers had reached Lake Mithrim, the feud between them was already starting to be mended. Gifts of warm clothing and food, passed at Fëanor's orders from his own company to Fingolfin's followers, did much to patch up the bad blood between them. Many of those separated in Araman were friends or family to each other, and though the Ice was a memory of fear and despair, it was memory now, and the battle they had fought together brought them back together. 

As they walked, Fëanor told the tale of everything that had happened following the burning of the ships. There had been battles under the stars, and Fëanor had quickly learned some of the extent of their Enemy's strength. For Círdan of the Falas had met with Maglor as he scouted to the south, and had given him all he knew of the strength of Angband, the multitude of Orcs and Balrogs that dwelt within, and the might of its walls. And Maglor hastened back to his father and told him of this, so that when the Orcs attacked, he had not pursued them far across the plains of Ard-Galen, but let them go. 

Soon thereafter an embassy had emerged from the Gates of Angband with an offer to treat on terms, up to and including the surrender of at least one Silmaril. Wary of this, Maedhros persuaded his father to let him take his place, fearing that Fëanor's capture might be the aim of this offer, and thinking himself the superior diplomat. His own capture and the death of all his company had been unexpected. 

"Did you not try to rescue him?" Fingon said at this, following behind his father, listening to the tale as it was told. 

"We had not the strength to assault Angband in force," Fëanor replied. "Then did I most bitterly regret my actions in Araman." He turned to Fingolfin. "For you see, it has come to pass that I do need you. And from the North you come unlooked-for." 

\-----

They had been beside Lake Mithrim for several hours and were busily setting up a new camp for Fingolfin's followers alongside the rough-hewn stone buildings of Fëanor and his followers, when light slowly began to creep over the sky. Fingolfin, sitting in Fëanor's hastily-built fortress, which appeared as though it had been made mostly from rocks and mud, caught a glimpse of it and rose from his seat. As if compelled, he went outside, to the shore of the lake, where the water reflected the colours of the clouds, pink and yellow along the horizon. 

"What can it be?" he said, turning to Fëanor, who had followed him out. They stood alone on the sandy shoreline. All over the camp, faces were turning toward the light, eyes staring upward in wonder. 

"It reminds me of Laurelin," Fëanor said, voice filled with awe and wonder. "As that silver disc which appeared seven times resembled Telperion." 

The light grew more and more intense, the colours brighter. Pink clouds gleamed both overhead and from the lake, tinged by orange and yellow along their edges. The darker clouds among them bore a lining of silver light. Fingolfin found that his hand was reaching out for Fëanor's, and Fëanor took it, smiling softly. 

The first sun rose like a shout of victory, and all across the camp broke forth exclamations of joy, hands clapping, the embraces of old friends and old enemies, sobs of relief, upraised hands of triumph. Someone started playing music, and then many began to dance for very joy, wild and untameable. Fëanor and Fingolfin stood, hand in hand, watching every moment of the rising sun, unable to tear their eyes away from it. 

When at last it slipped the horizon, ascending into the sky, Fingolfin let out a breath of pure relief, and Fëanor laughed with joy, and turned to Fingolfin. For a long moment he looked into Fingolfin's eyes, and then, without a word, leaned forward and kissed him. Fingolfin felt his whole body come alive, fire dancing over his skin, and wrapped his arms around Fëanor, deepening the kiss almost without thought. Even in the midst of sorrow and grief, there was light and love in this new land, and Fingolfin sank into it, feeling the warmth of the light on his skin, the warmth of Fëanor against him. 

"Ñolofinwë," Fëanor finally murmured, drawing back a little, mouth temptingly close, eyes half-closed. They stumbled back into the fortress together, half-drunk on sensation, falling together into Fëanor's rooms, kissing awkwardly, deliciously, exchanging whispered frantic endearments, and on Fëanor's part, apologies. The light spilled through the window of Fëanor's bedroom, illuminating the furs that covered his bed, and they collapsed down onto them, into each other's arms. 

Fingolfin's mind was flying through all their past together: the strange thrills he had felt, as far back as he could remember, whenever Fëanor touched him or paid any attention to him, the few times they had worked together on some project or other, their bodies falling naturally into sync together as though they were two halves of one person, the infrequent gifts that Fëanor had given him of beautifully worked gems and jewellery, the times Fëanor had returned from a long journey and had been glad to see him and had embraced him warmly, and most of all, the feel of Fëanor's hand in his as they stood before the throne of Manwë. Despite their wills which strove against each other, their bodies had always yearned to meet just like this. Now that they were no longer at odds, kisses and caresses seemed only natural, only right.

Fëanor's hands were on him now, wrapped warmly around his back, as he kissed Fingolfin's throat. They were both hard, moving against each other through their clothing, needing more intimate touch. Fingolfin pushed his hand into Fëanor's hair, pulling Fëanor up to kiss his mouth again and again. 

"May nothing divide us," he found himself saying. "No grief, no loss, no fear, no pain. Never leave me behind again, for I'll surely do just as I have done and follow you to the ends of the earth."

"So be it," Fëanor said. "I will not abandon you. I have learned a bitter lesson in the loss of my son and yours - but enough, please, of grief for now." He kissed Fingolfin slowly, deeply, arching against him, until Fingolfin was moaning softly under his lips, thrusting upward with his hips. "This is joy unsought, but now that I have it, I would keep it, and nothing on this green earth shall part us." 

\-----

They did not emerge from Fëanor's rooms, flushed and sated, until the sun had all but traversed the sky for the first time. Around them the encampment was full of laughter and warm conversation, Fingolfin's followers speaking easily with Fëanor's. They walked through the camp side by side, faces alight, and looked at their gathered people. 

Aredhel came rushing toward them as they were walking back toward Fëanor's fortress. "Findekáno's gone," she said. Fingolfin glanced at Fëanor, who looked troubled. 

"I think I know where," Fëanor said. 

For all the haste that was necessary, it still took four risings and settings of the Sun before an army could be assembled. Few horses had managed to survive the Ice, so Fëanor gave Fingolfin half of his own stock, and none of his sons dared question it. When at last they left, though Fëanor was still in name King of the Noldor, Fingolfin rode beside him, and they consulted on every decision together. 

On the morning of the seventh day, they were crossing the plains of Ard-Galen, when they found one of the few horses to survive the Ice - Fingon's horse - roaming free across the plains. 

"Captured or dead, then," Fingolfin said, bowing his head.

"That is not certain," Fëanor answered, placing his hand over Fingolfin's. "Surely the horse would also have been captured or killed."

At length they came to the Gates of Angband, unmolested by Orcs, not hindered in any way. Some distance away, tents had been set up, and a battlefield was all in readiness. If war would be the result of their actions here, they were ready for it. 

Ordering their army to keep back, both sprang from their horses and hammered on the gates with their spears, while the trumpeters sounded a loud call. 

"Come forth, lord of slaves!" Fingolfin cried out. "Coward and craven I name you!"

"Murderer and thief, face now your doom!" Fëanor shouted. 

The echoes of their voices and the trumpets died away and for a long moment they waited, eyes on each other. And then in the deeps of Angband a great clamour arose and the sound of echoing footsteps. 

The gates were flung open and the Black Foe came forth. He was clad all in black armour, he bore a hammer that was half Fëanor's height and a shield of black metal, and on his head he wore a crown bearing the three Silmarils. Both Fëanor and Fingolfin drew their swords, and the sound of it was like music ringing in the hollows, echoing from the cliffs all around. Side by side they stood, facing their Enemy. 

"Your visage has become somewhat less fair since our father you wantonly slew," Fëanor said. "We call you here to account for his death, for your destruction of the Trees, and for the theft of the works of my hands, which belong on brows more fair than yours." 

Morgoth said nothing, but raised his hammer, and brought it down with all his might between them. They sprang apart, and Fëanor leaped toward Morgoth's arm, wounding him in the shoulder, while Fingolfin's sword pierced through his armour to his knee. And yet that was not enough, for Morgoth brought the hammer down again, and with his shield he blocked Fingolfin from attacking his legs. A great pit rose smoking where the hammer struck, and Fingolfin swiftly climbed onto the hammer itself before Morgoth could raise it, and ran up Morgoth's arm, aiming for his throat. 

Crying out, Morgoth flung Fingolfin from him, aiming with his hammer for the place where he landed. Dazed, Fingolfin caught Fëanor's outstretched hand and was pulled away just in time. Morgoth raised the hammer again as Fingolfin got to his feet, and both of them rushed toward Morgoth. They caught him as the hammer's weight pulled him backwards and off balance. Fëanor leaped high over the shield and smote at Morgoth's face, but missed, while Fingolfin darted under it and aimed a blow at Morgoth's foot. 

The blow to his foot was so hard that it staggered Morgoth and he reeled backwards, flinging Fëanor off, hardly able to hold the hammer or shield. The hammer crashed to the earth, unaimed but in his fury Fingolfin had lingered too close, and the hammer glanced off his head. Its full weight did not land on him, but he staggered back himself, and fell to the earth. 

Morgoth took a step forward and placed his foot on Fingolfin's chest, even as Fingolfin shoved upward with his sword, piercing the foot through and through. Morgoth gave a loud cry of anguish and all trembled to hear it. 

But Fëanor was undaunted and aimed once again for Morgoth's throat, climbing up Morgoth's shield arm. Beneath Morgoth's foot, Fingolfin cried out, and Fëanor shouted in inarticulate rage. His sword gleamed bright, fierce and proud. With one hand he snatched the Iron Crown from Morgoth's head, even as his sword thrust smoking into Morgoth's throat. 

Morgoth choked violently, falling backward, releasing Fingolfin. Fëanor withdrew the sword and leaped clear as his Enemy fell to the ground, struggling in death throes. 

Fingolfin stirred faintly as Fëanor knelt beside him. In his hand was the Iron Crown, and the Silmarils were within it. He took one of Fingolfin's hands in his own, and raised it to the Silmarils. They pulsed with a bright energy, and shone like stars in the wastelands. Fingolfin took a deep breath. All was dark about him, save only that light, and its reflection in his brother's eyes. 

"Kiss me," he said. "For I am about to die." 

"You will not die," Fëanor said, eyes bright and fierce. And he lifted Fingolfin from the field and carried him away, leaving behind the smoking ruin of Morgoth's body. 

In a tent not far away, Fëanor set Fingolfin down on a bed of furs, and carefully examined him, removing his armour piece by broken piece. His helm had protected his head from the hammer-blow, but many bones had been broken from the weight of Morgoth's foot upon him. His breathing, though, was steady, and Fëanor was reassured that no broken ribs had pierced his lungs. 

Fëanor had given the Iron Crown to Curufin with orders to remove the Silmarils, and Curufin met him at the door of the tent after a little while, handing them over without a word. Fëanor took them, held them in his hands, and they shone brightly, illuminating the whole tent. Fingolfin's eyes fluttered open at the sight of them, and Fëanor glanced over and smiled. 

Silently he sat down on the bed beside Fingolfin, and one by one placed the Silmarils on him, one in his left hand, one in his right hand, and one at his breast. Then Fëanor closed his eyes and put his own hands on Fingolfin's head. A surge of energy passed through Fingolfin and he gasped, breathing deeply, the pain in his body easing. Fëanor bent and kissed his mouth. 

"Sleep now," he said, and "and wake healed in full. All of the strength I can give you, I now give you." And with the feel of Fëanor's hands on his head, and the memory of his kiss lingering, Fingolfin drifted into sleep. 

\-----

He was awakened by a tumult of voices outside. The Silmarils still lay in his hands and on his breast, but moving, he found that he was no longer in any pain. He had no idea how long he had slept. Fëanor was nowhere to be seen. Outside, voices were raised, but it was not the cries of battle that he heard, but rejoicing. He sat up, laying the Silmarils aside for the moment, and then managed to stand, staggering a little, and made his way to the door of the tent. 

A huge Eagle stood not far away, and from that Eagle Fingon was dismounting, carrying a burden wrapped in rags that Fëanor was taking into his arms with infinite care. Forgetting his own recent injuries, Fingolfin rushed toward his son, catching him as he swayed with exhaustion. 

"Findekáno!" he exclaimed. "You've rescued Nelyo, you've actually done it!" 

"Not all of sorrow," Fingon said, with a tired smile. 

Fëanor turned at Fingon's words, and smiled brightly, holding an unconscious Maedhros in his arms. "No more sorrow," he said. "For we have come through sorrow to find joy and freedom, to fulfil our Oath, and behold, here we are, standing in the light, our Enemy vanquished." And turning, he carried Maedhros toward the tent, and Fingolfin wrapped an arm around Fingon's waist, supporting him, and they followed. 

Fëanor lay Maedhros down on the bed of furs, placing the Silmarils around his unconscious form, as Fingolfin directed Fingon, who was near half-asleep on his feet, to another bed of furs nearby. Fingon collapsed down onto the bed and was asleep in moments, with only a grateful look up at Fingolfin, who sat beside him, petting his hair tenderly. 

Maedhros stirred at the touch of the Silmarils but did not wake, and Fëanor busied himself cleaning Maedhros' wounds and rewrapping his arm in bandages, concern mingling with the fierce joy on his face. Fingolfin, with a last stroke of Fingon's hair as he slept, rose, and made his way over to Fëanor, kneeling down beside him, handing him bandages and warm wet cloths. 

"We cannot mend all," Fëanor said, after they had been working together in silence for some time. "Alas, we cannot bring back Arakáno, nor can we restore Maitimo's hand, but we can do so much, bring so much light." He paused in his work and leaned over, kissing Fingolfin unexpectedly and warmly. Fingolfin dropped the bandages he was holding and returned the kiss, heart pounding wildly. "Our Enemy is defeated, for the moment," he continued, drawing back, and holding out his hand. Fingolfin picked up the bandages, and handed them over, face flushed. "But we know our Black Foe well enough to know that after a respite, he will return in a new form." 

"We shall be ready for him, then," Fingolfin said, resolute, and they continued their work. Maedhros lay still, sleeping peacefully now, one of the Silmarils in his left hand, one at his side next to the stump of his right wrist, and one at his breast. Light shone through him and over him, and in that light, no wound could help but heal. 

Later, Fëanor drew Fingolfin outside of the tent, into the sunset, and wrapped his arm around Fingolfin's shoulders as they stood together in silence for a while. Around them Fingolfin could hear the cheerful noises of a triumphant people, busy with everyday tasks, the marching feet of the guards not far away, laughter and voices raised in song. And this in sight of the cliffs of Thangorodrim, within hearing of the halls of Angband. 

At length Fëanor turned toward Fingolfin and, with a sigh of happiness, kissed him on the mouth. Fingolfin put his arms around Fëanor, and for a long time they stood together, trading kisses, until dusk had faded, and the Moon once more was rising.


End file.
